


people (that they loved one day)

by alamorn



Series: sudden moves [2]
Category: Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Past Abuse, Recovery - abusive relationship and self harm, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-16 04:08:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8086594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alamorn/pseuds/alamorn
Summary: Harley does some thinking. As usual, there's casualties. Like Floyd's dignity.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This whole fic operates on the idea that Harley either didn't get broken out, or she ended up back in Belle Reve with minimal punishment. Either way, she's broken up with the Joker.

Floyd thinks he's got her figured out, which is, it's cute. And he's closer than the people who stop at ”crazy,” because, frankly, that's reductive and lazy, and Quinzel was shit at her job but even she would look at Harley Quinn and say, “Textbook Stockholm, with bipolar or borderline, exacerbated by drug use.” Hopefully, a freshman psych major could figure that shit out.

But she's getting off topic. Anyway. Floyd's failing, other than his old man name, Floyd, _Jesus,_ is that he thinks of it as a before and after. Dr. Harleen Quinzel and Harley Quinn. And the secret _is_ , there's no difference, except inhibition. All Harleen wanted from the time her mother pulled her inside and said, “Good girls don't play in the mud,” with the unspoken, frantic, _Good girls don’t kill toads_ , was someone to tell her it was okay to be bad. Not _hee hee, aren't we naughty, having dessert first_ bad, machine gun bad. On a lower level, never apologizing bad.

You wanna know how the Joker got to her? The world knows it wasn't his looks. He said, “You never have to apologize to _me_ , Harley darling. I feed people their own eyeballs.” And then he said, “You're so much smarter than anyone else _in_ this joint. _Tell_ me they don't have you running errands and licking their boots.”

He said a lot of other stuff, too, but that’s how it started. That’s the gist of it. A girl wants to feel appreciated.

Floyd appreciates her. She his _favorite_ on the whole damn suicide squad. He likes her even without violence, although he gets _appreciative_ when she lets loose with her bat.

But she can’t place whether he wants to fuck her or call her kid, so on the way back from another mission, still covered in some weird slime that’s probably going to give them all cancer, she says, “You want me to call you Daddy?” As much as she tries not to listen to Captain Kangaroo, he wasn’t wrong. _Everything_ is a knife fight to her.

Wiped as they all are, it takes a second for her words to land. Floyd turns to her slowly, eyes wide. “Jesus, Harley. Why would I want _that_?”

Across from her, Captain Kangaroo-fucker wolf whistles and says, “You can call _me_ Daddy anytime.”

She’s already baring her teeth in a smile when she turns to him. “Why, sugar? You wanna check under my _bed_?”

“And on top of it,” he says, because he doesn’t know how to _stop_.

“Oh, you won’t like what you find _there_ , Daddy,” she says, and kicks him straight in the nuts with her new combat boots.

Floyd clucks, but he’s smiling when she looks at him.

 

They get social time now, after three times out and back. Meals, and an hour in the afternoon. It’s nice, but also, Katana’s not a criminal, and June Moone sans Enchantress is just a person, so it’s Harley and a whole lotta dude. She likes the boys, but she misses the company of women. Back in Gotham, she’d been making friends. Pam and Selina. 

She’d had a fight with Pam before the Bat got her. Pam wanted her to leave Mistah J. She hadn’t been ready to hear it. It was a bad fight.

Pam probably thinks she’s dead now. It’s too bad. Harley’s pretty sure Pam didn’t talk to anyone but Harley and her plants. Now who’s she got?

Pam didn’t have any patience for the kind of machismo bullshit that keeps ruining meals. Whenever Kangaroo starts running his mouth at Croc, Harley just gets really nostalgic for Pam.

 

She asks about tattoo removal after their fourth outing. She wants Rotten off her face. She’s _not_ rotten. Just mean. There’s nothing spoiled about her, nothing that should be thrown away. She’s not old food. 

And besides, face tattoos are so tacky.

 

Floyd spars with her. Weaponless, she’s better than he is, but he’s no slouch.

It’s fun, surprisingly. He doesn’t hurt her just to hurt her, the way J did, or the guards.

Tapping out took a while, as a concept. The idea that violence could just _stop_ , before someone was dead or at least bleeding? Not a thing she’s used to.

But it’s funny, sparring with him. If she forces him out of boxing, he always tries to go for guns he isn’t wearing.

One time she gets him pinned with his face practically buried in her cunt. He can’t move his arms, and unless he does a lot of maneuvering faster than she can, he’s stuck for good. Any struggle just forces his face closer to her. He grasps the situation pretty quickly and goes still, but it’s a long moment before he taps out.

She’s wet, which would be embarrassing, but a quick glance down the length of his body before she lets him go shows that he’s hard.

He almost scrambles away from her, but she stays where she is, back on the mat, letting her knees sway apart. “Let’s fuck.”

Floyd looks at her the same way he did when she offered to call him Daddy. “There’s cameras everywhere,” he says, which is not a no.

She shrugs, feeling vulnerable and raw. “I get cavity searched a lot. No part of me they haven’t seen before.”

His voice is low, dangerous, when he says, “A lot?”

“Less, now that that one asshole is gone.” She sits up, delighted. “Are you _worried_ about me?”

He doesn’t answer, so she gets onto her knees and crawls toward him. “Don’t worry,” she says, a spare inch from his lips. “I killed at least three of them. And twice I really did have something.” When he says perfectly still, save for a ticking muscle in his jaw, she kisses him, a loud closemouthed _smack_ that’s mostly for show. She pulls away before he can, throwing herself dramatically onto her back.

A long moment. His fingers on her ankle make her jump before she forces herself to relax into it. Harley smiles up at the ceiling and Floyd traces her bones and scars, no higher than her knee, until their time is up.

It’s his call now. Harley is willing to wait. But not for long.


	2. Chapter 2

Harley’s not used to giving people space or waiting patiently or anything like that. If she sees something or someone she wants, she takes it. If she doesn’t succeed, well, there’s generally not a second chance. But she can’t avoid Floyd, and she finds she doesn’t even really want to. He’s as sweet as a hired gun can be. Eventually, she decides that she just won’t seek him out. She’s made her move. Getting rejected again would ruin their working relationship.

So she eats her meals with Chato and Waylon. They’re both a lot of fun, once you get past the prickly first layer. She and Chato have a rocky start, but if they move past the _killed his family_ thing, he’s good company. Deliberately calm. She even backs off on picking at his sore spots because she likes him, not just because he could set her on fire with a thought.

Waylon, though, is her favorite. She’s never _met_ anyone as touch starved as Waylon. He lets her climb all over him, lets her perch on his shoulders and direct him around the yard. Being a million miles tall is _fun_. Also fun? Waylon takes all of his social cues from her. Floyd’s tried a little to work with him on things like boundaries and appropriate behavior, but Waylon, at his heart, is a _little shit_ , and he decided on their first mission that Harley is whose lead he’s going to take.

The guards are kind of used to her at this point. It’s harder to get a reaction. Unless she’s got Waylon backing her up. That makes them all go a cheesy white.

 

After a few days, Floyd grabs her after lunch. Lightly, with the tips of his fingers on her elbow, but his face is dead serious. “If I have to eat alone with Digger one more day, we’re gonna be down a member, dollface.”

It startles a laugh out of her, a loud one. 

“Walk with me,” he says. “Let’s talk.”

She loops her arm with his and they head to the yard. She can’t keep herself from bouncing as she walks. It’s happening! Floyd is making a move! Picking up what she’s putting down!

He ruins it pretty fast. The second they’re outside, in the humidity of a Louisiana day. “I don’t want to fuck you, Harley.”

She yanks away from him, whirls. “Liar.”

Floyd closes his eyes, sighs through his nose. “Let me say rephrase that. I’m not going to fuck you.”

She widens her eyes, looks up through her lashes. “Never, Daddy?”

He hisses, annoyed. “Never, if you call me Daddy. I like you, Harley. As a person, and as a teammate, but I’m too old to play this kind of game.”

“But I love playing games,” she whines, trying to figure out where he’s going with this.

He starts walking again. She bounces after him. “Fine,” he says. “Let’s play a game. Show me yours, I’ll show you mine.”

“You’ve already seen my tits, mister. I’m owed!”

“No.” He clicks his tongue against his teeth. “Tell me something new about you everyday for a month. You still wanna fuck after that, we’ll talk about it.”

Oh. He wants to _heal_ her. Draw out Harleen, or whatever. Work around the _trauma_ and her resultant hyper sexuality. Well, jokes on him. She was a slut even before she was Harley Quinn. “Doesn’t sound like I’m getting a lot out of this deal. You’re missing the mark, Deadshot!”

In the space of a breath, Floyd’s crowded into her space, noses almost brushing, his breath warm on her face. It smells like mint. “Alright, dollface, how about this? You tell me something new everyday, and at the end of the month, we’ll go to the mat, and when you get me pinned again, instead of tapping out I’ll eat you until you don’t know how to say anything but my name.”

Her mouth is dry. And open. She feels like a bucket of cold water has been dumped over her head, but like. Sexy water. When she doesn’t say anything, he grins and steps back. “Oh no you _don’t_ ,” she snarls, hooking her hand around his neck and yanking him down into a kiss.

And what a kiss it is! Teeth and tongue, and when he pulls away again, they’re both panting a little. “Had to check if you were any good with that tongue,” she defends.

He smirks. It’s very smug, and very attractive. Harley has to consciously keep herself from going back for seconds. “Pay up,” he says and she mock scowls.

She shuffles through secrets and history, measuring impact against image against vulnerability. In the end, it’s an easy answer. “I slept with a professor to get an A in undergrad.”

“What class?”

“Calculus.”

He nods. “I’ve heard that can be a challenge for people.”

She shoves him in reproach and they bicker in the yard for the rest of the hour, until they get shuffled back into their cages.

 

“I got into a lot of fights in elementary school. After I broke another kid’s nose, my mom made me switch schools and have manners lessons."

 

“J tended not to hit me in the face. He liked to keep me pretty.”

 

“I don’t actually know how many people I’ve had sex with. I never kept track carefully, and when J got me into drugs…well, it’s all kind of a blur.”

That one makes his lips tighten, but he doesn’t say anything, just changes the subject.

 

“I actually don’t mind Digger most of the time.”

“I don’t, either, but if you tell him that, I’ll never speak to you again. And I don’t think that counts.”

“What? Fine, okay. Arkham was my first job out of college. I got assigned J because everyone with seniority loaded up with other patients. If I ever get out of here, I’m probably gonna go kill the administrators that let that happen.” She pauses to think. “If they’re still alive, anyway.”

“I’ll help,” he says, voice soft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got written because of the nice comments and questions I got from jocelynfray and roguefembot, so 1) it's super easy to get me to write more if you ask me questions and 2) I have no idea how good this is or if it works because I just wanted to get it up as a thank you. 
> 
> There might be more to this but I'm not gonna make any promises lol


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for self harm. Details in end notes if you need them.

Two weeks into their game, there’s another emergency. A black site project gone wrong. It’s less stressful than most of their calls, because it’s in the middle of nowhere New Mexico and they just have to put down some terrible experiment terrible scientists made. Since the scientists are already dead, and the thing doesn’t move very fast, there’s no hurry and no worry of civilian casualties.

The monster, or whatever it is, some kind of slow moving, deadly lump, is highly radioactive, so they’re all in bright yellow Hazmat suits and will be staying in the desert for two to four weeks of quarantine after they stop it. Kill it? It’s not a hundred percent clear if it’s alive or not.

Whatever it is, it’s the most relaxing mission they’ve been on. They just have to contain it, and dump sand everywhere, and then they get to stay outside of Belle Reve for a while.

It’s guaranteed to take twenty years off their lives, but none of them expected to make it to old age to start with, and the Wall is taking a corresponding twenty off their sentences. It’s embarrassing, but Harley isn’t even planning an escape attempt. She’d never admit it, but she’s actually looking forward to spending the quarantine time with her boys.

They don’t even have to get close to the thing themselves. Each of them has the controller for a cute robot to do the actual heavy lifting. Harley’s pretty sure they’re mostly there to make sure the scientists are actually dead, but if so, Flag hasn’t told them yet. As it is, it’s seeming more like a vacation than another job.

Even if she does feel ridiculous in the Hazmat. It does _not_ look good with the shoulder harness she uses for her gun, but she’s hardly gonna leave Belle Reve without it. She’s sure she looks almost as silly as Waylon, who stuffed himself into _two_ barely fitting suits. At first he hadn’t wanted to use _any_ , claimed he couldn’t get any uglier, but after the Wall gave him a detailed run down on what radiation poisoning does to a body, he’d almost refused the mission outright. The two suits were a compromise. 

She’s proud of him. Used to be, he didn’t care about his body. She’s so overwhelmed with pride that she slugs him in the shoulder. He grins down at her. It hasn’t been horrible for a while, but behind two layers of masks, it’s almost goofy. That doesn’t mean it’s any _prettier_ , but she’s always found unselfconsciously ugly things charming.

Harley’d tried to adopt a cat once. The beast had been steel gray, missing an eye, an ear, and a leg, with a voice like a fucked up foghorn, but it licked her fingers and butted its ugly little head against her hand when she found it in the street.

J had thrown it out the window when he saw it, and her after. The cat had limped away without a second glance, but Harley’d had to call a friend to take her to the doctor.

That’s a good secret for Floyd. Lately, he’s been wanting to know emotions, not just facts, and she has a lot of emotions to go with that one. She finds him in the front, wants to hook her chin over his shoulder as they pause to check the radiation readings, but can’t, because of the stupid suit. Instead, she hooks her arm around his waist.

He doesn’t initiate touch with her anymore which is. Disappointing. Like he doesn’t want to encourage her.

She hasn’t asked about it, obviously, because that would mean she noticed and he’s already getting a secret a day. Piling any more vulnerability on top of that would just….well. She’s not going to, is all.

What she does instead is touch him all the goddamn time. Even more than she used to. Trying to get away from _her_? She won’t allow it, and frankly, he’s crazy if he’s trying miss his chance. Have you _seen_ her?

Anyway, if he wants her to go away, he’ll have to use his words, and then she can punch him for being an asshole. Making promises he doesn’t intend to keep. What a jerk!

“You doing okay, dollface?” he asks, shaking her from her increasingly violent musings.

“Peachy keen, Headshot! Any clue how much longer we’re gonna be wandering around down here?”

He grimaces. “No, and I can feel the radiation destroying—“

“Your future children?” Digger cuts in. “Me too, mate.” He looks sadly down at his crotch. “Sorry, kiddos, don’t know that I’ll love ya with flippers and shite.”

“Oh, Kangaroo,” Harley croons, “they can’t be any uglier than _you_ , and we all know how much you love yourself.” She pumps her fist a couple times to make sure he gets the point.

“Oi,” he says without heat, “you’re not pretty enough that I’ll let you go about disrespecting me forever.”

“Yeah?” She leans forward, teeth bared. “You wanna teach me another lesson, _Daddy_?”

The memory makes him cringe away from her, and she’s sniggering as Floyd sighs heavily. “Children, I don’t know about you, but I like my skin where it is, so if we could get a move on?”

“Lead the way, Boss Man,” Harley says, slapping Digger’s back.

“Don’t let Flag hear you calling me that,” Floyd orders with a grin.

“Yeah, it’ll hurt his _feelings_ ,” Digger says, with an emphasis that suggest feelings are for weaklings and weirdos, as if they don’t all know about his little pink unicorn.

They get a move on when Chato announces, calmly, as if talking about the weather, “I might explode from too much radiation. We’re not sure how my cells will react if they degrade too much.”

Flag’s on comms only, since _he’s_ not disposable, and he’s got a few robots of his own. Eventually they figure out that one scientist is actually still alive, and turned the lump on the other fifty. They find the room he’s hiding in and Floyd shoots him from the doorway. Without someone to tell it where to go, the lump goes dormant and their job is done.

Flag meets them outside in his own Hazmat suit and leads them to the quarantine site. They’re all staying in one big tent until their radiation readings are normal. There’s armed guards everywhere, but the toilet’s got some privacy, so it’s better than her bird cage in Belle Reve. Harley claims the cot next to Floyd. Actually, when she sees which one he’s headed for, she throws herself on it so he has to scowl and take the next one over, but same thing, really.

 

Later, she shoos the rest of the boys away. When Digger hip thrusts and moans at her, she says, “Oh, you already know what we’re planning on doing? That takes all the _fun_ out of it,” and pouts until he gets uncomfortable.

When she’s got Floyd to herself, and at least the pretense of privacy, she says, “You know, this would be an awesome time to do it. No cameras.”

“You think they don’t have cameras on us?” He’s smiling to soften the blow.

“Well, we could _pretend_.” She throws herself onto the cot with him.

“Or you could tell me what you’ve been trying to say all day.”

She opens her mouth to tell him about the cat, but what comes out is, “I don’t know how to be gentle, or how to be treated gently. I’ll probably try to hurt you. Physically and emotionally.”

There’s something soft about the way he’s looking at her, the way his lips are curved just a little bit, and the small creases at the corners of his eyes. “I know who you are, Harley.”

“Well that’s good!” She forces a laugh. It sounds brittle even to her own ears. “I’d hate to think you were messing around with another beautiful blond!”

She can see him thinking about reaching for her, can see the way the muscles in his arm twitch, but he doesn’t. It’s for the best, really. If he touched her right now, she’d probably break his wrist. Her chest feels tight. Her lips are tingling.

“Harley,” he says, impossibly gentle.

She stands abruptly and flees to the decontamination shower. She should be crying. She feels like crying. Instead, she scrabbles at her old scars, the ladders on the insides of her biceps. Her nails are too short and blunt to do more than raise red welts for a long time, but she’s persistent. Desperate. There’s a terrible pressure inside of her, and _she can’t cry_. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she chants, nausea twisting her stomach. There’s blood on her nails, blood in the water.

The hands on her wrists are sudden and unexpected and she struggles against them even after she recognizes Floyd. She didn’t want anyone to see her like this, _how dare he see her like this!_

“Harley,” he says, gentle, gentle, like coaxing a wary dog. “You don’t have to talk to me, but you don’t need to do this.”

“Yes, _I do_ ,” she spits, still struggling. She’s naked and slippery, it should be easy to get away, but his hands are like iron bands, and there’s nowhere to go, even if she does slip his grasp.

“No, no, Harley, you don’t. You want to hurt someone, hurt me. I can take it.”

She goes limp at that, sagging back against his chest. Tears are finally leaking out of the corners of her eyes. Tentatively, Floyd releases one wrist to turn the water off. “Come on, Harley.” He pauses, breath puffing against the back of her neck. If he says it’s all going to be okay, she’s gonna kick him in the nuts. Instead he turns his head and calls, “Hey, Chato, could you bring Harley some clean clothes?”

She tips her head back against his shoulder, closes her eyes. She can’t get her breathing under control. 

She lets Floyd be in charge for a while, lets him tape gauze over the lines she scored into her arms, lets him dress her, lets him lead her to her cot and tuck her in. She can’t bring herself to look at the rest of the squad, but Floyd stays next to her cot, stroking her hair until she falls into uneasy sleep.

 

She dreams of J, telling her how weak she is, how pathetic that whole display was, that no one will ever love her like he did. 

 

When she wakes up, Floyd is still sitting next to her cot, head resting on an upraised knee, and fingers tangled with her own. She has to clench her jaw and swallow a few times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW details: Harley has a panic attack about emotional intimacy and relapses into self harm by scratching her arms until she bleeds. If you want to read the rest of the chapter and skip this part, it starts shortly after the line, "She stands abruptly and flees to the decontamination shower."
> 
> As someone with a history of self harm, I tried to deal with this delicately, and without any unfortunate implications, but if you feel that I've mishandled it, please let me know and I can rework it. Harley will get better from here. This is a story about healing.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No trigger warnings for this chapter, but Harley's mental state is pretty fragile.

Harley doesn’t talk to anyone for a full day, but she doesn’t start scratching again either.

They all give her a little space, but the tent’s pretty close quarters. There’s only so much they can do. She resents them for their presence anyway. Her head is all mixed up about it; she’s grateful and dully panicked, resentful and relieved. They know, now. What a double edged sword.

Waylon’s the first one to approach her again. Once he woke up, Floyd had said, “I’m here if you, you know, need me.”

When she hadn’t made a joke about needing him sexually, just kept her eyes on the wall, he’d ghosted off, looking uncomfortable.

He’s a dad with a daughter in middle school. He’s probably read books about warning signs and what to do.

Waylon, on the other hand, has never had a friend before, let alone read over the counter psych books, so he drags her out of bed with a grunt. She punches him in the nose but he just grins at her and carries her to the table and drops her in a seat.

Chao shoves a bowl of oatmeal in front of her. They’ve obviously done their best with what they’ve got — the oatmeal is gray and gross looking, but there’s honey and craisens. She chews on the inside of her cheek for a moment, not to hurt, just to think. They all look so hopeful, which is, frankly, disgusting. But the last time anyone _cared_ was her mom, screaming about image, and what would people _think_?

So instead of pitching it at Chato’s face, Harley picks up the spoon and wrinkles her nose and says, “Guys, I thought we were _friends_. What’s _with_ this bowl of day old ralph?”

Chao doesn’t do full smiles, but the corner of his mouth quirks up. “You’re the last to eat. You know what Waylon does to a spread.”

She takes a bite and elbows Waylon in the stomach until he sits next to her “You lug!” she accuses. “Trying to starve a growing girl!”

Waylon shrugs expansively. “Not like you can get any smaller.” He squints and holds his hands a few inches apart. “When you’re this big, how much food do you really need?” A contemplative pause. “I should eat more.”

Harley blows a raspberry at him and shovels the rest of the oatmeal in, even though he’s not making any moves to actually take it. If this weren’t a _gesture_ , a way to make a _point_ , there’s no way she’d eat it. It’s watery and tasteless, despite their best efforts, and her body doesn’t feel quite hers, and it certainly doesn’t feel hungry. But it is what it is, and with her arms still stinging, she’s not the best judge of what’s good for her.

When she’s done she stands up and head butts them both and goes to the corner where Floyd and Digger are playing cards. “Deal me in.”

Wordlessly, they end the round and Floyd deals a new hand. “Blackjack,” Digger announces.

They play quietly for a while. Harley wins, of course, because she’s a cheater. But the silence, she lets that ride.

She can’t really handle much more than that, honestly.

 

After a few days, she’s close enough to equilibrium to fake it better. She lets her head hang off the end of her cot and watches Floyd and Chato wrestle. They’re both shirtless, which she appreciates, and lets them know it. She roots for whoever’s losing, because she likes an underdog. It’s a pretty bad show, if she’s being honest, which she is, loudly and repeatedly, because both of them are used to ending things from a distance, and both of them are pretty strong. Without any formal training in play, Floyd has advantage just by being bigger.

“Hey hey hey,” she says, while Chato is swearing in Spanish with his face in Floyd’s armpit. “I call next. Waylon, you up for it?”

She knows she can beat Floyd, Chato, and Digger in hand to hand, but Waylon is so big and tough that she’s not sure about him. She’s still a little off balance, but fighting always clears her head, and at this point, it’s a controlled hand to hand or she’s gonna pick a real fight. Given that they’ve got another week and a half in the same room, this is better.

“Always,” Waylon says. “Shortstack.”

“Aw, honey,” she coos. “You say the _sweetest_ things.”

Chao taps out and Floyd helps him up. As she flips off the cot and onto her feet, he heads in her direction. “You sure about this?” 

“Tell ya what,” she says, “you can call halt any time and I’ll fight you instead.” With that, she pats his bearded cheek and skips to the cleared floor space they’re using.

Waylon shuffles out and they grin at each other.

“You’re going down, big guy,” she promises.

“Start,” Floyd says, sounding defeated.

If Waylon gets her on the ground, it’s over, so she tries to climb him so she can choke him out with her thighs. Humiliatingly, he lets her. His skin is too tough and thick for it to have any effect. “Well,” she says. “There goes that plan.”

Waylon laughs and falls backward to try and crush her under him, but she kicks away in time. She lands in a back handspring but there’s so little floor space that she doesn’t have the room to let the momentum out and stumbles as she rights herself. Waylon is back on his feet and waiting patiently in the center of the “ring” when she’s recovered.

This time she tries to sweep his feet, but it’s like trying to trip a mountain. He grabs her by the throat and arm — a pinch of healing cuts — and hoists her into the air. The arm hold takes the pressure off her throat, since this is a friendly match, but it’s still far from comfortable. She’s swinging her legs up to grab onto his arm like a sloth when Floyd’s voice cuts through the air. “Halt.”

Waylon sets her down gently and the second she’s on her feet she storms over to Floyd. “I was doing fine!”

His lips are set in a tight line.

 

She gives him a black eye.

 

By the time they’re out of quarantine, everyone’s excited to get back to solitary. After a week of solitary, Harley misses living up everyone’s asshole. It’s hard to win, when you’re a notorious criminal kept leashed by a bomb in your neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm struggling a lot with the next part, if anyone would like to throw ideas around with me. It might take a little longer for the next chapter to go up. If you guys are interested, I could do some of the past parts in Floyd's POV to tide you over while you wait?
> 
> All reviews are appreciated, but hearing what questions you have and what beats you've liked really helps me with writing more!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for self destructive/alienating behaviour and vague references to street harassment of an underage girl. 
> 
> It's actually a pretty happy chapter though.

It’s been three weeks since she last gave Floyd a secret when she next slams her lunch tray down across from his. He’s got a mouth full of loaf and a startled expression when she opens with, “I think this little game is stupid and I’m tired of playing. I just want to fuck, Deadeye, not get married and have two point five. Why you gotta know me for that?”

He chews, swallows, unhurried. She taps her fingers loudly. “Thing about fucking,” he says, “is that two people are involved.”

“Or more,” she says, mostly to be annoying. She doesn’t even get the lecherous grin right. Her face is set in a scowl and she can’t seem to make it budge.

“Or more,” he allows. “And everyone involved gets an opinion and the fucking doesn’t happen unless everyone involved is okay with it.”

“Get to the _point_.”

He wipes his mouth with a napkin and sets it on his tray, so deliberately slow and careful she nearly screams. “You may be okay with a fuck with someone you barely know, but I’m not.”

“What, so you want this to be _romantic_? You’ve already got me talking about my _feelings_ , what the hell else do you need from me?”

“Harley,” he says. There’s an edge to his voice. “I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

Fury makes her throat tight. “ _Fuck_ you, Floyd. You think you’re taking advantage of me? You think I’m an idiot, can’t make my own choices? Here I thought I was making the right decision for once, trying to pick up a guy that’d treat me right, but you’re just another patronizing asshole!”

The line of his shoulders is tense, and she knows ballpark how many people he’s killed, but none of his motions as he collects his stuff and stands make her think he’s about to turn all of that lethal violence against her. She doesn’t know how to feel about that. She didn’t like it when J hit her, but at least it meant he saw her.

She vaults the table without thinking, gets in his face. “Don’t walk away from me, _Floyd_. You want to get to know me? Here I am!” She slaps her chest for the shock of sound. He looks at her, face closed down.

“This isn’t making the point you want it to, Harley.”

Something stops her from jabbing her finger into his chest, but only just. Instead she folds her arms tightly across her chest so she won’t be tempted to use them. “Then what point should I be making, huh? Fearless leader, always knows best. Come on! Tell me!”

He tilts his head back and calls, “Guards, I’m requesting an escort to my cell.”

“ _Coward_ ,” she spits as a riot suited man twice her size shoulders her out of the way. “You’re a _coward_ , Lawton!”

He throws up a hand in a dismissive wave as they escort him away. If she weren’t watching him so closely, she wouldn’t notice that his hand is trembling, but Floyd’s brought the entirety of her attention down on him. It’s never ended well for anyone in the past.

 

When she goes back to her own cell and curls up on her bed, she considers her options. The idea of a war of attrition makes her queasy. She’s _angry_ , but — she doesn’t want to fight with Floyd. She just doesn’t know how else to make herself clear. This whole thing, this whole stupid deal, has been so unbalanced. She could get sex anywhere, if that’s all she wanted.

“Oh,” she says, staring at the bars that make her ceiling. “Well, _shit_.”

Flag’s drawl pierces the fugue of her thoughts. “You doing all right in there, Quinn?”

All visitors to the prison have to pass in front of her birdcage to get to the other cells. It can be nice, having a heads up if things are about to change, but most of the time it’s just annoying. Guard changes always wake her up. But things like this almost make up for it. “Flagsy!” She bounces to her feet and the front of the cage. “What’re _you_ doing here? We got another job?”

“Not today, Quinn. I’m doing a morale tour.” 

She’s pretty sure he’s being sarcastic but the grimace is reflexive and impossible to turn into another expression. “Oh.”

Flag has grown some sort of sense of humor about his complete inability to rally the troops so when he says, “You implying something, Quinn?” there’s a smile playing at his lips.

“It’s nothin’! Just…” she bites her lip and bats her lashes. “Well, at least you’re pretty.”

He takes it as the joke it is. “You think I’m pretty? I need to watch my chastity around you?”

“Ha!” The laughter busts out of her without artifice. 

“Well, now you’re just trying to hurt my feelings.” He walks away with his nose in the air, then looks over his shoulder. “So how’s your morale?”

“Gimme something to kill! I’m in a great place for this shit!”

He chuckled. “Good to hear.” With that he descended into the belly of Belle Reve.

 

Next he passes through, he doesn’t stop to talk, and he looks…serious? Angry? She can’t place it, and she doesn’t like it. 

 

Floyd’s brought to her cell a few hours later, looking mulish. He’s not allowed in the cage with her, but he’s within the first set of bars. He sits in front of her, close enough to touch, close enough to grab and pull into her range. She doesn’t, but she could. That’s nice. On purpose, too. Which is. Reassuring.

“My first kill was at fifteen. It wasn’t a hit, really. I didn’t get paid, anyway. I had a kid sister — well, she lived in the same apartment building as me, same hall, we weren’t really related. A guy laid hands on her. She was thirteen, he was twenty some. I killed him in an alley with a, a fucking switchblade.”

She shifts onto her knees across from him, lets her hands settle on her knees. She’s ready to spring away, and ready to reach out. “Why are you telling me this?”

He grunts. “It’s come to my attention that I haven’t been fair to you. So. What do you want to know?”

A grin steals across her face. “When was your first kiss?”

“Seventeen.”

“You gotta give me more than that, buddy!”

He sighs. “Her name was Jaime and we’d been ‘dating’ for a month. I was too chicken to take it past a hug, so one night when I was dropping her off she kissed me. It sucked, honestly. I jumped like a rabbit. We worked it out, though.” A satisfied smile.

“Smooth moves, mister!” She cackles. “Okay, okay, what was your first job?”

“Hit or legit?”

She shrugs.

“I stocked and did register at a corner store when I was fourteen. My first hit…I was eighteen, and there was a gang dispute. Once guy looked at another guy’s girl, a few people died. One of the family members wanted the killer dead without their name in the mix. Had no idea what to charge.”

She tilts her head. “What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”

“Shit, girl.” He runs a hand over his head. It’s been a few days since he’s had a shave, and she can hear the rasp. “You don’t mess around, do you?”

“C’mon, Floyd!” The smile that’s been pasted on drops. “You’ve seen mine. Show me yours.”

He breathes. “Fuck. Yeah, okay. That’s fair. I took a hit while I was watching Zoe, once. She was really little, had her in a baby backpack. We were low on money, real low.” He shrugs helplessly. “I’d do it again, if I had to, but I regret it.”

She reaches through the bars, leaves her hand where he can take it or leave it.

He clasps it, his hands warm and hard calloused. She releases a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. “We good?” he asks.

“We’re good.” As he starts to get up, she says, “You still gonna blow my mind, Floyd?”

He ducks his head a little. She scrambles to her feet and grabs the bars, pressing her face against them to get a better look. Are his ears flushed? It’s a little hard to tell, but they are! “Are you _embarrassed_?”

“No! Just. Surprised you still want me to.”

“ _Floyd_ ,” she breathes, delighted. “You _are_! I didn’t know you were shy!”

“Not _shy_ , just — you know what, if this is how you’re gonna treat me, I don’t know if I want —“

“No, no, it’s cute!” She laughs. “Do I need to be gentle? Because I’m not good at that.”

He shoots her a look but the effect is ruined by the smile playing at his lips. “I don’t need you be gentle, but you can’t rush genius, doll face.”

Heat curls in her belly. “Talk like that, you better deliver.”

He takes hold of her chin through the bars, a delicate, two fingered grip, and tilts her head back so he can press a kiss against her lips. It starts gentle, but when she runs her tongue along the seam of his lips the shift is immediate and fierce. There’s not a lot of room to move, with the bars pressing into both of their faces, but his tongue is hot against her own and he pulls away with a sharp nip to her lower lip.

She licks the taste of his mouth off her lips as he grins at her like a boy. When she can tear her gaze from his to glance around, all of the guards are mysteriously facing the other way. Her chest is heaving with exhilaration, a mad grin is on her face. Harley wants to fuck him on the floor of her cell. She wants to fight at least five guys at the same time.

Instead, she watches him leave hungrily, then ties her sheets to the bars and runs through a routine that leaves her panting and covered in sweat. She wants to get herself off, but for once, the idea of an audience puts her off. This is between her and Floyd. The whole staff doesn’t need to be privy to anymore than they already are.

For once, she goes to sleep excited for tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for everyone's input on how to deal with this chapter! There's one or two chapters left, and I am working on a piece in Floyd's POV for later.
> 
> Reminder that you can talk to me on tumblr if you want to yell about these assholes! same name there!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did it! I wrote the porn for you guys! I am sick and tired of looking at it, so apologies in advance if it's no good.
> 
> This chapter is just 100% sap. Enjoy!

She wakes up grinning and floats through the indignities of being escorted to the bathroom. She even braids her hair, she’s so giddy. Floyd _likes_ her, he really does. She wishes for nail polish, or fresh hair dye, or something to make herself look special, but it is what is, and what it is is pretty great.

At lunch time she doesn’t even have to seek him out. She arrives first and gets in line behind Waylon, but he’s brought in only a few minutes later, and she sees him scan the room and head for her the second his cuffs are off. When he gets to her, he slides his hand up and down her arm, quick and gentle like he’s not sure he’s allowed, and then stands so close she can feel the heat of his body. She bumps his chest with her shoulder and lingers a bit, grinning. “How ya doing, Hotshot?”

He shrugs. “Oh, you know. Excited for some loaf. It’s my favorite, you know?”

“Is that right?” Before she can touch his chest, Digger pushes through them making gagging noises.

“Scuse me, I want to get some food in my belly before you two make me puke.”

Harley rolls her eyes, but Floyd’s fingers tangled with hers kill any desire for retribution.

Then Floyd trips him.

“I knew I liked you for a reason,” she crows. She’s tempted to drag him to the sparring room now to have her way with him, but it’s not like they get food in their cells if they miss a meal.

 

They sit together and let their feet bump as they eat. It’s hard to talk, since she can’t keep a thought in her head but what he’s promised to do to her. Will he let her return the favor? She hasn’t shaved since she came to prison, for obvious reasons. Is that going to be an issue? J was never a fan of going down in general, but if she wasn’t smooth as a Barbie there was no way he would do it. She showered this morning, and that’ll have to be enough. 

Half of her wants to get worked into an anxious frenzy of expectation, but the thing is, she trusts Floyd. She trusts him to be gentle, and understanding, and she trusts him to make good. Whenever she feels herself getting too tense about it all, she just looks across the table at him, with his eyes warm, and she feels the tension ease. 

When they’re done, they head to the sparring room. She half expects someone to stop them — one of the squad with a question, or a guard because it’s so incredibly obvious what they’re about to do. She keeps starting to picture Waller appearing with a new mission they have to leave on immediately, but her mind cringes away from fully realizing that idea. Too terrible to even imagine.

But they reach their destination without any interruptions. Once they’re inside, Floyd starts to press her into the wall where the camera doesn’t have a good angle, but he stops quickly. “Did you actually want to do the sparring thing or —?”

“ _God_ no,” she says, yanking him into a kiss.

There’s no lead in, this time. His mouth is open when it hits hers, his tongue moving along hers. It’s still gentle, pressure careful, teeth at a minimum and used mostly to keep her focused a hundred percent on him. She doesn’t quite know how to kiss like this, like she’s something precious, to be treated carefully. When he pulls away and leans his forehead against hers, she’s a little stunned, a little teary, a lot turned on.

“You doing okay?” he says. “You need me to slow down?”

She breathes out a laugh. “Don’t you dare.”

He drops a kiss on the tip of her nose. “I was hoping you’d say that. Any limits I need to know about?”

Most of the guys she’s fucked would take anything she said in response as a challenge, would push those limits, or do only those things, so she stiffens a little at first. It takes a moment to talk herself through the response. Floyd’s not like that. Floyd’s trying to be respectful.

“I don’t do penetration without a condom.” He nods. “No butt stuff. Neck’s a little iffy — you can touch it, but no pressure, nothing like choking. Feet aren’t a limit, but I’m really ticklish, so if you touch them I’ll probably kick you.” She thinks for a moment. She hasn’t broken anything recently, so there’s no tender spots to avoid. “Don’t pull my hair.”

“Got it,” he says, starting to go to his knees.

“Wait.” He stops, on one knee, his hands on her hips. “What about you?”

He shrugs. “No butt stuff. Don’t bite hard enough to draw blood. Can I get started now, or…?”

She leans her head back against the wall and waves at him to begin.

He nuzzles at her cunt through her prison pants, breathing in deeply. A flush threatens to rise to her cheeks, but she doesn’t stop him. He rolls the pants down slowly, as if he is unwrapping a gift. She isn’t wearing underwear, and he flashes a pleased smile at the hair on her mound. A last bit of tension she didn’t know she was carrying leaves her sagging back against the wall bonelessly. He presses a kiss on her belly as he pulls the pants all the way off. When they’re gone, he pulls her left leg over his shoulder and slides his hands behind her ass to tilt her hips toward his face.

His breath puffs over her cunt, warm in the impersonal chill of the air. He rubs his beard against her inner thigh, and it’s somehow both scratchy and soft. He’s got her so worked up that when he finally puts his mouth on her she gasps a little, just a small noise, but enough for him to shoot a glance up at her. The eye contact makes her shiver, and his tongue on her clit draws it out. It’s a butterfly brush of pressure and she’s been wet since last night. 

“ _Floyd,_ ” she says. “If you don’t get a move on—“

He fastens his lips around her clit and _sucks_ and the leg supporting her weight buckles a little. She presses her hand back against the wall, flexing her fingers against the cool padding.

That seems to be what he was waiting for. He spreads her labia with one hand and dips his tongue into the aching core of her. The hand still on her ass is kneading gently, a soothing counterpoint to the almost overwhelming licks and flicks of tongue. “Oh,” she murmurs. “ _Oh_.”

He pulls away and she almost screams. Judging by the shit eating grin, he knows. His lips and beard are shiny. “Want a finger?”

“Let me see your hand first,” she says, trying to focus on what’s going on rather than the overwhelming want making her stomach tight and her clit throb. He holds up a hand obligingly. She examines it. His nails are short and filed smooth, and there’s no hangnails. She draws his pointer and middle fingers into her mouth, swirls her tongue around and between them, then pulls them out with a pop. “Go crazy,” she says.

Instead of going right for it he runs his pointer finger around her clit and traces it down to her opening before sliding it in and crooking it. Combined with the suction he’s eagerly reapplying around her clit, she slams her head back into the wall. “Shit, ow.”

“You good, dollface?” He looks smug, but she can see the bulge in his pants. And what a bulge it is! She can’t wait to get her hands on that dick.

“I’ll survive somehow,” she pants, and shoves his face back down.

He goes eagerly and after a few more minutes of hard work on his part she comes, jerking and shivering and moaning his name.

When she has enough presence of mind to take her leg back and sink to her knees to kiss him, he’s palming his cock through his pants. She likes the taste of herself on him. It feels like a claiming. _Mine_ , she wants to whisper, wants to trace with her tongue until it’s a part of his body. Instead, she reaches for that cock she hasn’t seen or felt yet, but is already sure is lovely. Without pulling away from the kiss, he catches her hand and brings it up to the back of his head. Bemused, she runs her fingers over the rasp of two day growth before she breaks the kiss.

“You don’t want me to touch you?”

“Harley,” he says, “you have no idea what I want from you. But right now, it’s not about me.”

She draws back a little, almost stung. Before she can get too far he reaches for her, cupping the back of her neck. “Sorry,” he says, “that came out wrong. Just.” His pants are low enough on his hips now that his cock has popped out but she can’t get a good look at it, with his hand working so furiously. “Kiss me. I want you to kiss me.”

That doesn’t clear things up, but she kisses him anyway, a little sloppy, a little desperate. He’s a little less careful than he has been, teeth clacking a little. She slides her free hand onto his thigh but doesn’t reach for his dick, just feels his muscles jump as he works himself. The thumb of the hand on the back of her neck is brushing lightly over the soft skin just behind her ear. It’s distracting, a little ticklish, so she bites down on his lip and he comes with a jerk, right onto his ugly shirt.

“Should’ve seen that coming,” he groans, but he doesn’t look upset and he doesn’t try to get up and get the paper towels that live near the door with the cleaning spray.

“Probably,” Harley whispers in his ear and sucks on his earlobe for a second. “You were great, old man.”

He groans loudly, but he’s not as hard to read as he likes to think he is. There’s laughter hiding in the lines around his eyes. “I won’t respond to that unless I can’t get up without help, dollface.”

She hides her own laughter in his shoulder. It’s not even funny, she’s just so delighted it’s bubbling out of her.

The knock on the door startles them both, Floyd enough that he swears long and low. “Fifteen minute warning,” a guard calls without opening the door.

“Affirmative, buddy!” Harley calls out. 

There’s an indecipherable noise and then they hear footsteps moving away. For a long moment they just look at each other. Harley can’t say what sets them off — the come on Floyd’s shirt, maybe, or the way they’re still tangled up in each other, the moisture on his beard — whatever it is, they dissolve into laughter, quiet and private and pleased.

It takes a few minutes for the laughter to stop. They keep setting each other off again. But closer to the end of the hour than is entirely safe, Harley wiggles back into her pants and Floyd gets a wad of paper towels to try and clean off his shirt. 

“Looking good, Hotshot!” she calls as he resorts to using the sterilizing spray and swearing under his breath. She’s in a bridge, too happy to stay still, too satisfied to do anything requiring balance.

He sighs and gives up — it looks okay to her, not the sort of stain that stands out on these already gross clothes — and sits next to her, pinkies brushing. She lets herself fall to her back and pulls his hand to her mouth, gnaws on his knuckles.

“What’s that for?” Eyebrow cocked, amused.

“I like you,” she says, only a little embarrassed.

“Yeah?” He leans down, kisses the tip of her nose. “I like you, too.”


	7. Chapter 7

If Harley was worried about how the relationship-relationship would affect their work relationship, the next mission makes it clear that she doesn’t need to be. Floyd treats her the same as ever; that is to say, he trusts her to take care of herself in a fight, but maybe not with temptation. Luckily, there’s not much of that on this mission. Some asshole released mutated gators into the sewers, and despite his looks, Waylon cannot, in fact, communicate with them in any way but punching. There’s no devil trying to make deals, and no ex to try and break her out, just shit up to the knee and a little bit of petty theft when she gets bored. But not even much of that, because what’s she going to steal? Shit?

A job like Suicide Squad is never going to be a joy, but Harley’s good at making her own fun. Most of the time, anyway. This mission tests that. 

At one of the rare points when they’re not in a sewer, she gets thrown through a window. By the time she lands and skids to a stop in the middle of a street full of broken glass, her arms and legs are cut up pretty bad. She has to kill two of Waylon’s stupid cousins with a two inch shard of glass sticking out of her shoulder. And she’s still covered in sewage. She takes a lot of pleasure in the killing.

When she’s done, supporting her weight on her bat, she tilts her head back and screams her frustration out. Katana is elected, by virtue of her tiny hands, to pick the shards and splinters out of Harley’s thighs and shoulders. So for the post mission reward, Harley busts open a fire hydrant in place of a shower and decides to go shopping, maybe get some real pants or something. All of them take turns in the spray, even Flag, and when they head out Floyd tags along, muttering something about needing new gloves.

Flag escorts them, fobbing off the duty of looking after Digger and Waylon in a bar on Katana, with Chato pretty much as moral support. Harley’s not sure if Katana did something he’s punishing her for, or if she actually doesn’t mind the two of them when they drink together. If it’s the second, she’s more fun than Harley suspected, because something stupid inevitably happens. You hope for an arm wrestling match, but light arson is more likely. Well, Harley hopes for the arson, but she’s aware that most people don’t.

Flag also picks the store — it’s nothing she’s ever heard of, and she was a little worried about it being some army surplus bullshit until they arrived. But it has a decent selection.

It’s not easy to find pants that are both tough and stretchy _and_ fit her look, but like hell is she going to go out there where people can see her wearing something boring and black that might get her mistaken for one of the other fifty girls that likes to dress up and beat the shit out of the night. Even if Floyd is making pointed comments about everything she picks up.

“Harley, those wouldn’t stand up to a good washing, let alone a fight.”

“Harley, as someone with a vested interest in your body, that’s asking to get shot in the ass.”

“Harley, I know you like to stand out in a crowd, but do you really want them to be able to see you from halfway across the city?”

“Fine!” she shrieks, throwing down the hot pink pants. “You find something!”

He’s entirely too pleased with himself as he disappears into the bowels of the store. Flag looks a little annoyed that they’re splitting up and making his job incrementally harder, but not enough to move from where he’s propped himself by the door. Harley taps her foot and waits.

When Floyd reappears, he’s carrying dark red pants, a black three quarters sleeve shirt a little heavier than she’s been wearing, and a leather bomber jacket the color of blood. He’s also wearing the smuggest look she’s ever seen. “Try it on.”

She rolls her eyes and starts to strip in the middle of the store. A glance at Flag shows that he’s playing a game on his phone, or maybe texting June Moone, and they haven’t seen any other customers, or even any workers, since they got here. An audience of one is a little more fun, but honestly, she’s too tired to make it a show. The pants are stretchier than they look, and thick enough to stand up to some punishment, with reinforced knees and ass. The shirt’s a shirt, but it fits. The jacket — the jacket is a work of art. She’s not sure how she didn’t see such a perfect piece herself. She tries a split and a backbend, checking for fit.

By some miracle, they fit. Harley’s never gotten a perfect fit on the first try before. “You must be magic,” she announces as she uses a kickover to stand up. Floyd always looks like he’s a little startled by his own good luck when she does gymnastics. That has nothing to do with why she’s been showing off lately, of course. “Everything fits. It’s a little boring, I gotta say, but it’ll do.”

“Boring?” he says, looking more hurt than seems reasonable, even if it’s half faked. “We match.”

Her face twists up of its own accord. “Is this, like, a metaphor or something? For us? Because, sugar, darling, biscuit, _you’re_ not boring. But your clothes sure are.”

“My clothes are _not_ boring,” he says, slinging an arm over her shoulders as they head for the door. “Only you would think body armor and a sniper mask are boring.”

“I just think you’re more interesting naked.” She shrugs and keeps a carefully bored look on her face.

He checks her face twice to see if she’s fucking with him. She holds it together the first time, but the second she cracks. “Oh, I get it,” he says, nodding and scuffing his knuckles through her hair. “You think you’re _funny_. That’s fine. Everyone’s got their flaws. It’s good we figured this out so early on. How’s this for a fake laugh?” He guffaws flatly, which sends her into a gale of giggles. “Will that work for when you tell jokes in the future? Or should I work on it?”

When they pass Flag he eyeballs Harley’s new outfit — her old clothes are still in a pile on the floor — and sighs while he pockets his phone. “I’ll have them send me the bill.”

Harley clucks and shakes her head. “Have we taught you nothing?”

“Yeah, why are you still paying for shit, man?”

Flag rolls his eyes and waves them on, hanging back a little so they can have a last few minutes of togetherness before it’s back to their cells.

Floyd looks — not worried, exactly, but something, and Harley realizes his joke about the future was another damn metaphor. Or symbolism, or whatever. She only took intro English, and it was an 8AM so she slept through most of it. She pinches his side. “Stop worrying, dummy. I’m willing to work at it if you are.”

There’s just a flicker of relief before he says, “Wait, so you don’t like it? What about this?”

He does different fake laughs all the way back to the helicopter, until Harley is squealing and trying to twist away from him (but not very hard). On the flight back, they tangle fingers and Harley leans her head against his shoulder. He rests his chin on the crown of her head.

Floyd thinks he’s got her figured out, and he’s maybe not a hundred percent of the way there, but he’s close. And he’s trying. It’s not as scary as she used to think, and it’s not quite _cute_ anymore. It’s something else now. Something soft. He sees her. And what he hasn’t seen, he’s willing to look for. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys!! Holy shit!! This was supposed to be a oneshot!!
> 
> Anyway, all of your nice reviews have gotten me writing more than I have in years and I've gone from vaguely into this pairing and movie to Very enthusiastic, so there's probably going to be a sequel in Floyd's POV. It'll start out concurrent with this one -- missing scenes sort of thing, and move into mission fic. I'm gonna take a couple days off to plot it out, but if you have any scenes you would particularly like to see, let me know. I'm not into rewriting scenes from a different POV, but filling out the stuff that I couldn't show from Harley's POV is all in.
> 
> So! What do you want to see in the sequel? Since this wouldn't have gotten written without all of you, I want to know what you want to see.

**Author's Note:**

> hang out with me on tumblr! I'm alamorn there too


End file.
